


Chicken Pox

by thegeminisage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Episode: s06e12 Like a Virgin, Gen, Sam Winchester's Wall, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeminisage/pseuds/thegeminisage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wall itches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Pox

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT: "It's hard for Sam to get used to the changes. How did he get these new scars? And what has he been doing to get his muscles so well defined?
> 
> The changes are a constant reminder of all he doesn't know. If he could watch Dean turn vampire for a hunt, if he could kill Bobby, what else has his body been doing? It's like when Meg possessed him, only he has no memories whatsoever, and that scares him. Dean doesn't want him to remember, but how can Sam live with not knowing?"
> 
> Spoilers for 6.12 and nothing else.

_"You know, I kinda feel like I got slipped the worst mickey of all time...and I woke up to find out that I burnt the whole city down."_

Sam sleeps more heavily now than he ever has. He remembers the nights right after Jessica died, when he stayed up all night watching bad TV just to avoid dreams, and he remembers the sleepless nights tossing and turning when Dean was in Hell; after all of that, after all he's been through, it's hard to believe how quickly and easily sleep claims him now.

He never dreams. One moment he's in bed, and the next he's waking up, tired and groggy no matter how long it's been. He knows, Dean told him—with no soul, he didn't sleep. And he supposes his body has to make up for it somehow. But he wonders how much his dreamless nights have to do with that heavy wall settled in his brain, blocking out the days and weeks and months of his life he'll never get back.

_"You can say it wasn't me, but...I'm the one with the zippo in my pocket, you know? So I'm not sure it's that cut and dry."_

Sam has no idea what he's been doing, and he just can't deal with not knowing. It's not like recalling Meg or Lucifer forcing him to do things he didn't want to do. Everything he did, he did of his own free will. He just...didn't have a conscience to warn him against it. At least with demons or angels inside of him, he could see, he could fight. There's nothing in his memory now but a wide, flat blank space. That wall.

Sam remembers when he was ten years old and finally caught chicken pox for the first time. He was miserable and pathetic, hated having to be out of school, but it didn't stop Dean from sticking to him like glue for a solid week. Dean bore his whining with no complaint, nothing but patience and understanding. He kept Sam's temperature down with baths and cool cloths, made sure he got plenty of fluids. Most importantly, Dean made sure Sam didn't pick at his sores. He pulled Sam's hands away every time, threatening everything from duct tape and oven mitts to bodily harm if Sam didn't stop.

It didn't do a thing to discourage him. Knowing he wasn't supposed to scratch, well—that just made the itching that much worse.

_"I appreciate you trying to protect me, I really do. But I gotta fix...what I gotta fix."_

So Sam tries to put it together himself, even though he knows Dean would freak if he found out. He doesn't even mean to, just—the things Castiel told him. If he could watch Dean get turned, if he could try to kill Bobby, then there was no atrocity that he wasn't capable of committing without his soul in place to stop him. And he's got to know what he's done, he's got to, or he'll never be able to make it right.

So after he finally manages to drag himself out of bed, he showers, taking the opportunity to look over every inch of himself, get reacquainted with his body. He's much stronger than he remembers. Not that he was physically weak before he jumped, but it's different now. He's solid muscle, like he spent all those sleepless nights just bodybuilding. It's a little creepy, and he turns his attention to his skin.

His arms and chest are littered with scars he doesn't remember. They offer a few pieces of the puzzle, though it's nothing he wants to know. A mark on his shoulder, in the shape of teeth—vampire, he thinks. Another one on his hip, and—hooker, he knows, and he swallows down revulsion.

_"I need to know what I did."_

_"You don't know how dangerous that could be."_

After his shower, Sam dries off and pulls on his clothes. There's steam on the mirror, and his reflection is so fogged out that he can't see it at all, just like that past year and a half in his mind. He reaches up to wipe the water away, and pauses: there he is, Sam Winchester, soul and all, looking exhausted and preoccupied and a little frightened.

His reflection is still blurry. The water running down the glass makes it too hard to see his own face. He can't help it; he picks up his towel and wipes the mirror clean. He has to see.

_Sam looks up to meet Dean's eyes. "What would you do?"_

The wall itches. And God help him, but he has to scratch.


End file.
